


On The Western Skyline

by poisontaster



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, M/M, Mail Order Brides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:17:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>On the frontier of space, Jensen is a mail-order-spouse who arrives after a long journey, only to find out that his intended has died. Jeff knows he's no replacement but if given the chance, he'd like to offer Jensen a life here.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Western Skyline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyJanelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJanelly/gifts).



> Theoretically, this was written for mysticwaters's [JDM/Jensen Comment Meme](http://mysticwaters.livejournal.com/99378.html), for a prompt by ladyjanelly. Sadly, I write at the speed of glaciers (pre-global warming, at that), so I missed the window of opportunity. Still, I had the story half-written and I'm nothing if not stubborn.

  
In all the mess of debarkation, Jeff didn't even notice the guy at first. Ship coming in is always a bit of a two-step, getting all the cargo off, getting new cargo loaded, soothing down the feelings of the barons convinced that every bump of the crates is the ruin of their fortunes. When there's a new crop of folks coming in, too, it's like Lunar New Year and Founding Day and the Harvest Festival all wrapped up in one: families getting reunited ( _journeys end in lover's meeting_ ), the exciting, chaotic influx of new workers, new blood. New stories made interesting by the fact that they're about somewhere else, somewhere not High Sierra.

But when the tide has ebbed, the luggage and children collected and carried off, leaving the beachcomber detritus of their passage; when Jeff can finally look up from his tablet and blink away its neon colors, he finally notices the lone figure left standing on the skyhook's platform.

"Hey," he calls, tucking the tablet into the pocket of his coveralls. "You waiting for someone?"

In the next moment, Jeff's wondering how he could've overlooked the guy for this long, because he's freaking _gorgeous_.

"Yeah." Jeff's fallen angel's voice is deeper than he would've expected, given the fine-boned prettiness of his face. He produces his handheld like a mechanic sharping cards and if Jeff hadn't already known him for a stranger, he would by the tablet, the molecule thin next-generation 'plast that'll last until the first big storm. "I'm looking for [name]."

Lightning streaks across the sky, blue-purple that arcs into blinding white. The crash of thunder that rushes on its heels drowns out the name, loud even through the solastic panels overhead, but Jeff doesn't need the name to recognize the face staring out at him from the 'plast like a ghost.

_Ah, hell._

"She died," he says, into the silence that follows and it's only when the other man's face breaks and falls does he realize he probably could've put it more kindly, more gently. He spends too much damn time with machines. "Did…did you know her?"

The guy shakes his head. "No, not really." High Sierra is a long way from anywhere and it shows in the traveler's appearance, dirt-stained and scruffy, his longish hair dark and oily. Decon aside, he probably also has a hellacious case of lice, given the conditions on most passenger transport, but Jeff still just kind of wants to run his fingers through those malt colored strands and see if they're as soft as they look. The guy gestures, halfway between a shrug and a wave. "I'm her mail-order."

"Aw, _hell_ ," Jeff says aloud this time. There's been one or two mail-orders through; High Sierra's got money, which is why folks are willing to live here…but it's still the butt end of nowhere. Guy seems a little old for it, but you never can tell. His bride to be had been no spring chicken, either. "You know anybody else, you got anywhere else you can go?"

The guy's voice is softer, almost disinterested. "No."

Jeff sighs. "You got any money?" He knows what the answer is; the guy wouldn't—couldn't—be a mail-order, let alone come all the way out here if he had two hardcred to knock together. But the question has to be asked, the formalities observed.

A near-whisper: "No."

Jeff runs a hand through his hair. He's their problem now. No money of his own and zero chance of sending him back where he came from, assuming he's even got anywhere else to go. Most of the mail-orders, they don't.

And, at the moment, he's not just _their_ problem, he's _Jeff's_ problem.

"What's your name?"

The guy is smart; Jeff sees the flicker of hope spring into existence in the guy's eyes, indeterminately pale in the weird light of the storm. He wonders what kind of horror stories the guy's been telling himself. "Jensen."

Jeff offers his hand. "Good to meetcha. I'm Jeff. It's nothing fancy, but you're welcome to bunk with me until we can figure out what to do with you." He pauses. "No strings."

Jensen's chest hitches sharply but his voice comes out perfectly even, if hoarse, when he says, "Thank you."

***

Jeff lives alone and works long hours; they walk in to the meaty perfume of the slow cooker. Jeff's stomach growls, but the sound of Jensen's is more a snarl, startlingly loud in the stillness.

"Sorry," Jensen apologizes. It's too dim in the hallway to really tell, but Jeff thinks he's blushing. "God, I'm sorry…"

"Because you're hungry?" Jeff chucks off his boots, gestures for Jensen to do the same. "That's nothing to be sorry about." There's a hole in one of his socks. They're hand knitted, which means he can't just put them in the launderer but he hasn't had time to ask Genevieve to darn them for him. It mattered less this morning, when he put them on…when he had no reason to think anyone would see them. "Can't speak much as to the quality, but there's plenty of it and it's hot. Give me five, ten minutes and I'll have bread heated up and some coffee."

"You have coffee?" For the first time, Jensen sounds surprised, even more surprised than he'd been to find his intended had died.

"Well…" Jeff scratches his jaw sheepishly. "It's not like what you'd find in the Core. Repackaged grounds, like as not eked out with wild acorn or chicory, but if you've got a craving or need a jolt, it's as good as you're likely to get."

Living on High Sierra's got its crosses to bear, no doubt, but Jeff loves it and he hates that the presence of a gorgeous stranger from the Core's got him apologizing for it.

"Sounds like heaven," Jensen says. "It's been…a long trip. Feels like I haven't stood up straight in months. I'm really grateful for all of this. Thank you."

The _thank you_ sticks strangely on Jensen's tongue as though, despite his reduced circumstances, he hasn't had cause to say them much, or maybe pride's kept him from it. Either way, it clearly costs Jensen something to say the words, so Jeff doesn't embarrass him by acknowledging them, just turns and goes into the cubby of the kitchen.

"Got just enough time for a shower if you want one. Plenty of water in the tank and towels in the nook next to the tub."

"A water bath?" Again that note of slightly amazed excitement fills Jensen's voice; Jeff realizes how long it's been since his own planetfall, how much he's forgotten about it and how much he's taken for granted in the years since.

Jeff had grown up on Kessler's Reef; he'd never taken a water bath until he got to High Sierra, though the first steaming hot soak after a long day had wooed away any residual weirdness he felt about it. He wondered where Jensen had grown up, that the prospect excited him so. "You don't have to ask me twice," Jensen says and a moment later, his socked feet padded up the stairs, Jeff tracking his movement through the house by the familiar creaks and cracks of the wood.

The dough he stored in the cooler by the back door is plump and taut-skinned with gases. It always surprises him how much he likes making his own breads, the physical work of it a nice balm after dealing with bots and computers all day. A nice, crusty sourdough will be just the thing to go with the slow cooker stew, he thinks, as the pipes above his head wail to life.

He's got the loaf shaped and in for baking when it occurs to him that Jensen doesn't yet have anything to wear but the dirty clothes he came in and it's anyone's guess how long he's been wearing them. That's an easy enough solution, though, unlike just about everything else in front of Jensen.

The pebbly sound of the shower comes to an end as Jeff pulls down a tee-shirt and soft-knit house pants whose elastic waistband will make up the difference between his waistline and Jensen's.

When he taps on the door, Jensen opens it promptly, much more quickly than Jeff was expecting. He's clad in nothing but one of Jeff's threadbare towels, slung low and tight around his hips, held in place by one hand. He's still wet.

There's nothing Jeff can do about his first, raking glance, everything but his eyes frozen in a kind of stunned shock that anything—one—this lovely is standing half-naked and dripping wet in his house. He makes a valiant attempt at recovery. "I thought you might want something clean to wear," he says, offering the bundle out.

"You do understand I can't possibly repay you for all this," Jensen says slowly, doubtfully. "I…even if I sell everything I own, little as that is…"

"I'm not asking for repayment," Jeff says, shoving the wad of cloth at Jensen. "Didn't ask you for a damn thing." Downstairs, the timer on the breadmaker chimes. Jeff turns on his heel and goes downstairs.

He shouldn't be so irritated with Jensen. It hasn't been so long since he's been gone from the Core; he still remembers what it was like, how nothing comes without a price, even the air you breathe. Jeff's not starry-eyed enough to say it's totally different out here in the hinterland planets but most folks out here have the sense to know that any charity offered is really just a form of enlightened self interest.

"Hey." Jensen stands just outside the threshold of the kitchen as if afraid to enter, hands braced on either jamb. "I didn't mean to seem ungrateful. I _am_ grateful," Jensen insists doggedly. "I just…" He bends at the waist, as with a cramp, sudden enough that Jeff puts down the bread knife and takes a step toward Jensen.

"I've always paid my own way," Jensen says, sounding like he's filtering each word through his gritted teeth. His head comes back up, the expression on his face both prideful and confused in either measure: _how did I get here?_ "Even this…" Jensen waves a hand. "I would've been a good husband, the best husband I could; it isn't just something for nothing. I paid. Maybe not in money, but I paid." He looks at Jeff, the desire for Jeff's understanding naked in his darkened eyes, though Jeff isn't entirely sure Jensen's aware of it.

"We all pay," Jeff agrees, stepping back to the counter and scooping up the bowls of dished out stew. He hands them to Jensen. "And usually more than what you can afford."

The line knit between Jensen's eyebrows unravels and the hard, desperate line of his mouth softens into an almost-smile, one-sided and uncertain, as if he hasn't done that in a while, either.

"You drink beer?" Jeff asks, picking up the cutting board—bread, knife and all—with one hand and edging sideways to the fridge.

Jensen nods. "Been a good long while for that, too, but yeah."

"Brewery's been up and running for close to a year now," Jeff comments off-handedly, nudging the door open with a sharp but practiced jab of his hip. He swipes two bottles off the top shelf, pincers them between his fingers and jerks his chin for Jensen to proceed him out of the kitchen. "And unlike the stuff the engineers tinkered up in that back room still of theirs, the beer won't make you blind."

Jensen smiles again and, this time, it looks more like it belongs there.

***

Jeff doesn't want to pry—that isn't what this is about—and so he fills in most of the conversation over dinner, telling Jensen about their little fledgling colony, small enough that he knows everyone here by name, big enough that he doesn't have to see them all every day.

"Point is, there's work, if you want it," Jeff says, leaning back with his second beer of the evening—an extravagance he rarely permits himself. "And, once you got your feet under yourself again, places to stay better than this."

"What's wrong with this?" Jensen asks, that same shy half-smile lighting his face. "After six months in a liner cabin, this is a palace."

Jeff laughs. "I bet it is."

Jensen rolls his bottle between his palms. "What was she like?" he asks finally, thumb picking at the badly glued label. His mouth crooks, an ironic not-smile. "My fiancé?"

Jeff considers. "She was…quiet, mostly. Not in a bad way. Just one of those folks that just never figured out how to be easy with words." He smudges his thumb across the label of his own beer. They haven't quite figured out how to really fix the vegetable dyes and the ink has a tendency to bleed. He shrugs. "It's why it made sense, her sending for you."

"Get past all that awkward getting to know you and go straight for the awkwardly married stage." Jensen nods wisely. "A truly brilliant plan."

"Now gone terribly awry."

"Not so terribly," Jensen offers.

Jeff smiles, the warm mellow of the beer combining with the pleasantness of flirting with someone young and pretty. Then he sighs, settling the chair back on all four legs. He stacks their empty bowls and rises, reaching out for Jensen to hand over his empties.

"I got it," Jensen says, gathering up his own and Jeff's bottles, grabbing the cutting board with its sad remaining crust of bread. "Thank you for dinner."

"You don't have to keep thanking me." Jeff shakes his head. "It's not nearly as much trouble as you seem to think it is. Don't underestimate how desperate folks around here are for a change. You're going to be something of a seven-day wonder: you're new, you're good-looking and you're single, with a tragic past. If it's marriage you're after, you won't have too much trouble finding a substitute."

Jensen screws his face up. "Hadn't thought that far ahead, honestly. Though I guess I should." He pauses, then eyeballs Jeff. "You think I'm good looking?"

It's been maybe decades since Jeff threw a blush, but he feels his face turn hot and his cheeks pink up all the same, hoping against hope that his beard hides it. "Don't play games, boy," he says, something in his veins igniting in a different kind of heat, like a gas line. "You know how you look."

Jensen hums noncommittally. "I'm all right. But I've been trying to figure out all night how _you_ think I look." He steps into Jeff's space—ostensibly to put the cutting board down on the counter, but once he does, he doesn't move back, standing almost toe to toe.

"Jensen." It could be a warning, it could be plea. There's a part of Jeff inside that's busting a gut laughing at how he got himself into this, at how he— _he!_ —is acting gunshy and scared like he's never fucked or been fucked by a man in his life. The rest of him is just scrambling to keep up.

"It's a simple enough question," Jensen says, sounding completely reasonable, which is unfair for more reasons than Jeff can comprehend. Jeff must blink or something, because a moment later, it seems like Jensen's even closer without having actually moved. "Do you think I'm good-looking?" If Jensen's eyes were dark before, they're bright now, almost eerie, like there's a light behind them, shining through pale green glass.

"You don't have to do this," Jeff says, and when did he free up his hand to cup Jensen's cheek? This close, he can see the near-colorless angel-hair that prickles Jensen's cheek, feel it against his palm. "This isn't a price you have to pay. Not to me."

Jensen's eyes shift, a shadow crossing the sun. "That isn't what this is." He leans his face into Jeff's touch, lids sinking until his eyes are nearly closed. It's not sexual, except in the way that Jeff can't think about anything as much as how he'd like to be having sex with Jensen. Quieter, dreamier, Jensen repeats, "That isn't what this is."

_Then what is this?_

Jeff knows the question, it's the logical question, but he doesn't ask it, closing his own eyes and bumbling forward to kiss Jensen, a slow, soft meeting of their mouths that glides effortlessly toward perfection before it hardens, deepens, turns hungry.

Jensen crowds Jeff into the counter, hands scrabbling over Jeff's body until he finds the gap between shirt and pants and the bare skin underneath. Jensen sighs into the kiss when his fingers make contact with Jeff's body, a deeply satisfied noise that goes deep into Jeff and squeezes.

This isn't some kid he needs to look out for, protect. This is a man grown, who knows what he wants and is going for it, both barrels.

"Come upstairs with me," Jeff gasps, once he can wrench their mouths apart. Jensen protests wordlessly, straining forward against Jeff's thumbs on his jaw, tongue licking out to tease Jeff's bottom lip. "Come to my bed."

Jensen hums agreement, twisting in Jeff's hands to reclaim his mouth again.

***

"I was married before," Jensen says suddenly, long after Jeff thought he was asleep. "Once. It wasn't… We were young. We were so goddamn young." It's too dark to seen Jensen's face, even with the glow of the air converters coming in through the windows, but Jeff can hear the amazement in Jensen's voice, the smile. He remembers that—both the follies of youth and the glow of later nostalgia—with a stab that cuts through the sweet aftermath of sex.

"So this was…what? Three weeks ago?" And fuck, but Jeff sounds _wrecked_ , his voice a rusted out hulk of its already deep tones.

Jensen grins against Jeff's ribs and then punches him in them. "I'm not that young and you're not that old, grandpa."

"Oh, ouch," Jeff retorts without heat, moving his legs around to a more comfortable configuration. The blanket, he thinks, is a lost cause, wadded somewhere down around their ankles and trailing to the floor.

It's been a while, a good long while, since Jeff's had anyone in his bed but—other than the brief disagreement over who was topping (handily solved by blow jobs all around)—it's been strangely comfortable with Jensen. Hot, intense, even shocking, but without the fumbling unfamiliarity Jeff expects from a first time together.

If his out-of-the-black confession is anything to go by, Jensen seems to be feeling it too.

"It wasn't all perfect, of course," Jensen admits, after a long enough silence that Jeff thought that was all he was getting. "We argued about money—man, did we argue about money—we argued about where to live, we argued about his family, we argued about mine…" Jensen sighs, all the baggage he lacks materially present in that tired, resigned sound. "But we were happy. We were really happy."

It's Jensen's turn to shift, a warm slither of his skin on Jeff's, the tightening of his arm across Jeff's hips. Jensen sighs. "Point is, he died. He died and it was painful and it took a long time and it's been more than five years since anyone's touched me in a way that wasn't professional, wasn't business." Jensen raises his head from Jeff's side and, though his face is still too deep in shadow for his expression to be seen, Jeff feels the prickling touch of Jensen's gaze. "I just…I thought you should know that."

Five years. It's been a long time since Jeff was at the stage of fucking everyone that would open their legs to him, but that's still a huge, hard rock of time. Not just to be without sex, though that doesn't sound like any great shakes, but without even the simple touches: hugs from friends and pats on the shoulder, fingers ruffling through your hair or careless kisses, thoughtlessly exchanged. No wonder there was that feeling between them, like two men starving for water in the desert. No wonder.

Jeff reaches to smudge his fingers across the plush give of Jensen's mouth, lets his thumb push deep until it finds the wetness of tongue. "You want me to touch you again?" he asks, keeping it light, making it teasing, and he doesn't need illumination to feel the wattage of Jensen's smile.

***

"Mmm, don't you ever sleep?" Jeff asks, when he opens his eyes to the first rose-copper streaks of sunrise, only to find Jensen watching the daylight brighten, cheek propped on his hand. The warm color of the light is extraordinarily kind to Jensen's space-pale skin…though Jeff has to twist his mind to imagine a source of illumination that would be _un_ kind.

"I feel like I've slept enough, for a while," Jensen answers softly, the corner of his mouth ticking up, an expression that could be contemplative or a smile. Maybe both. His gaze flicks to Jeff. "I didn't fuck you because you took me in, you know."

Jeff nods. "Yeah, I know."

Jensen's gaze returns to the window. Other than the air converters, the buildings of High Sierra are low-slung, ground hugging. They have plenty of room to stretch out and no desire, as yet, to climb back toward the stars. From Jensen's angle in the bed, the view must be nothing but sky. "I knew I'd be starting over, coming here, but I didn't think it would be like this. It was…desperation that brought me. That and just not caring very much what happened next. Now…" Jensen laughs, a low, rolling sound that Jeff would like very much to hear again. "I have no money, no job, no place to live, no prospects…"

"You have a place to stay," Jeff murmurs. "If you want it."

"Point is, I've got no reason in the world to feel as good as I do, right now, right here. But I do. I feel…hopeful."

"Plenty of world out there for you to start over in, if that's what you want," Jeff agrees, turning his own eyes to that pink-and-gold expanse outside the window.

Jensen slings a leg over Jeff's, drawing his attention back, to the bedroom, to the man sharing it with him. Jensen's fingers curl around the nape of Jeff's neck, drawing him down. "I think I already have."


End file.
